


Kikonheda

by myblackbox



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Season 2, warning for blood and mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myblackbox/pseuds/myblackbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an errand for his family, 13 year old Sarja of the Hill People is saved from death by a mysterious stranger.  Could this be the Great Wanheda who he knew could shoot fire from her very hands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set a few weeks after Clarke left Camp Jaha after the events of season 2.

Sarja was washing the last bag of wool in the stream when he heard his mother call from their small mud home. “The travel man has come!” Sarja excitedly wrung out the last of the white fibers and hung them on the line with the others. The arrival of the travel man always meant good trades and good stories. 

By the time Sarja and his mother walked to the village, the traveling man had unloaded his horses and spread out his wares on blankets. Sarja’s mother traded two heavy bags of wool for a large fine pelt of coarse black bear fur. This show of wealth would surly solidify her place on the council. 

Sarja looked over the swords and knives but he wasn’t as interested in the things as he was in the travel man himself; the travel man always brought news and he told the best stories. News of the outside was often in short supply among the hill people and Sarja was hungry for it. 

By evening, it seemed half the village was gathered by the fireside to hear the travel man’s stories. Usually they were of politics, or wars, or trade, but once the travel man had told of a water monster that was devouring the fisherman by the sea, and another time he talked of a sickness that had wiped out an entire people. But of all the years that the travel man had visited their village Sarja had never seen him smile so wide as he did now standing before them, his arms held out beckoning them closer. If the twinkle in the travel man’s eyes told true, tonight’s story would be the best of all. 

“What’s the news!” an elder cried out, and the travel man stood up on a rock by the fireside so that all could see him. He raised his staff and gestured out towards the people.  


“I tell you truly, Hill People, a tale of a great warrior who came down from the sky, and wherever she goes, she brings death!” 

The crowed murmured and shifted around Sarja. He noticed how this reaction seemed to please the travel man. He continued, “They say she wears all black, like the raven, but her hair is white and shines like the sun, and her eyes are blue and deep like her birthright sky. She is expert with the sword and the bow, but she needs neither of these, for it is said that she can shoot fire from her hands and kill any man where they stand.” 

Talking broke out all around Sarja and he wondered what manner of warrior this could be, that could send fire from her hands. “This is not all, Hill People, this is not all. They say at night, that she howls to the cougars and the wolves. They are her friends and they obey her calls.”

Another elder stood forward. “What has this warrior done, that she deserves such high praise?” he asked.

The travel man answered, “It is said that this sky warrior had lead her sky people in the forest land among the Trigedakru. She killed five hundred clan warriors with the fire from her hands. Their charred bodies fell around her in a large circle. Another time, a fire bomb from the mountain fell from the heavens killing many of the leaders of the clans, but this sky warrior walked out of the fire without being harmed. In the face of such power, what could the Twelve Clans do but sue for peace? It is said that Heda herself traveled to meet with the Sky Warrior to beg for alliance. After taming the Clans, the sky warrior turned her eyes to the Mountain Men.”

At the mention of Mountain Men, Sarja shivered. Every child knew the story of the Mountain Men, how they came out at night with their ugly masks and stole bad little children from their beds.  


“But at the time of battle, the twelve Clans turned on the Sky Warrior and left her people to die. Now alone, the Sky Warrior howled in anger and the wolves and the cougars crawled out of the woods to her aid. And with this army she stormed the mountain. They say that her eyes were like lighting and fire poured from her fingertips and in the end, she killed every Mountain Man - man, woman, and child - with her very breath.” The travel man breathed out over his audience dramatically.

“You lie,” an angry voice came from the back of the crowd. “How could one warrior kill a whole people with her breath?”

The travel man held up his hand in placation. “I tell you true. I, myself have seen the pile of charred bones at the mountain. No less than a thousand skulls pilled so high it blocked the sun. The twelve Clans, once a great people, tremble at mention of her name. And now she turns her eyes to the hills.”

A young woman spoke up. “This Sky Warrior has come to our land?”

“Yes. Scouts from the north have heard her howling.” 

“But why? Why come here?” another voice asked.

The travel man shook his head. “Some say it is because she is troubled. Some say she is lost. But I, I think she is looking for new lands and peoples to conquer. “

A young warrior stood forward, unsheathing his knife. “I think you have told us a child’s tale, traveling man. But tell me, what is this warrior’s name, so I may know what to call her before I kill her?” He tossed his knife in the air and caught it again with a practiced hand. 

“You may try, my brave friend, but thousands have tried and paid the price with their lives. That is why the ocean people call her Death Bringer, the northern gypsy’s call her The Vengeant, the desert dwellers call her Betrayed One, but I know true, because I was told by one of Trikru who saw her with their own eyes that she is called Wanheda.“

Late that night, Sarja lay on his mat, looking out his small window into the dark night. As the stars moved across the sky he could still hear the elder’s voices murmuring from down the path. He drifted to sleep with the image in his mind of a sky woman, hair white like the full moon, and fire dancing at her fingertips. 

***ooOOoo***

Sarja’s father arrived home during the morning meal. He smelled of sweat and dust and animals, and when he removed his head covering Sarja could see the tiredness in his eyes. He had been with his workers, moving the family’s sheep down from the high rocky ridges to the lower fields for the coming winter. After giving a report to his mother, and seeing his mother nod, he turned to Sarja. 

“We’ve lost a dozen sheep along the way. Go Sarja, you are old enough. Get a pack. I am sending you back up to the high fields to gather what more you can find.”

Sarja wanted to yelp with delight, to dance, to sing, but instead he stood and inclined his head, “I won’t let you down, father.” After all, Sarja was 13 now, almost a man, too old for childish things.  


It was a half day’s journey to the high fields, an arduous upward walk across rocky hills under a bright sun. He had never been this far away from home alone before, and though he didn’t fear, much, he still gripped his knife tightly in his hands. After many hours walking, the place where he would spend the night, his family’s high camp, was finally in view. In excitement he rushed up the rocky hillside. Maybe it was his excitement at reaching his destination, maybe it was his exhilaration at being trusted to do this alone, whatever it was, it distracted him as he climbed the last ridge, and he lost his footing and went tumbling. His head hit something hard and all went black. 

The next thing Sarja knew was pain, sharp pain, like a thousand knives in his shoulder and arm, and he screamed. The smell of blood and rot was in his nose and he opened his eyes to darkness and fur, and large yellow eyes reflecting in the moonlight. The beast tossed his body with overpowering strength. In his confusion, Sarja clutched for his knife but couldn’t find it. He grasped at the beasts fur, pushing away with all his might, striking at the muzzle, at the eyes, but nothing stopped the attack. As his last ounce of strength drained away Sarja knew that this would be his end, alone on the rocky hillside. 

It was then he heard the deafening pop, like one large boulder crashing into another. The beast squealed and fell, releasing his arm from its grasp. Sarja could feel a warm gush of liquid down his arm all the way to his elbow. He cast his eyes about to see what had struck the beast and saw a shadow person approaching. The shadow stopped and looked down at the unmoving beast and nudged it with its foot. “Damnit,” a woman’s voice said, “I hate dog meat.” The shadow then crouched close to Sarja. The moon was to the woman’s back, so her face still in shadow, but the moonshine lit up her hair like a halo around her head. 

“Are you alright?” the woman asked. 

Sarja felt exhaustion and sleep overtake him, but not before he mumbled, “Sky Warrior?”


	2. Chapter 2

When Sarja awoke the smell of cooking meat was in his nose. Not the sweet mutton that he was used to, but something more tangy and strong. He opened his eyes but quickly closed them against the brightness. After a moment he tried again, squinting and blinking against the warm sunlight until his eyes focused on a spit, slow cooking a meal over coals not far from where he lay. Next to the fire he saw a girl, or a woman maybe, sitting cross-legged on the ground. She wore a grey shirt and thick black boots ,and her hair was reddish brown like dry grass in winter. She held a book of records on her lap and he watched as she pulled a small twig from the fire and blew on the tip until it smoked. After she scratched in her book a few moments, she replaced the twig in the coals and repeated the action.

Sarja went to sit up, but the throbbing and heaviness in his arms warned him to move slowly. He made the motion and the burning came, down to his fingertips and through his neck. The woman must have heard him stirring. 

“You’re awake,” she said, not in his native tongue, but in the language of the clans. “How are you feeling?”

She stood and came towards him. As she moved between Sarja and the sun, the tips of her hair lit up like flame and he remembered: sky warrior.  
Sarja raised his good hand in a warning gesture for her to stay back. 

She stopped. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” She held up her hands. They were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you.“ She pointed to his injured arm and for the first time Sarja looked down to see that it was wrapped. “You have some pretty nasty puncture wounds there, and bruising, but I don’t think it’s broken.” The woman pointed to his head. He reached up and felt another bandage there. “You also have a pretty good knot on the back of your head. A concussion, probably, so you need to lie back down. Do you understand anything I’m saying to you?”

He remembered the wild dog attack, how the beast overpowered him and how he thought he was marked for death, and then the Sky Warrior came. But could he trust what he saw? This woman spoke to him in quiet tones. She had red hair like one from the sea or the far forest. She had a kind face, and his head felt full of wool, so he rest it back down, pressing his forehead against the cool earth. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. 

“Are you hungry?” she asked. 

His stomach flipped at the thought and he mumbled. “No.” His mouth was dry. 

“So you do understand me.” She smiled at that, revealing the whitest teeth Sarja had ever seen. “May I check your bandages? They may need changing.”  


When he hesitated she added, “I’m a healer, or was… I can help.” 

If she did mean harm there was little he could do, so he grunted his approval and the woman approached him.

Even though she was gentle, Sarja cried out when his arm was extended. She unwrapped the bandage revealing some sort of dried leaves pressed against his skin. “You might want to look away,” she warned, but he didn’t. When she peeled off the dry leaves, he saw the purple flesh beneath. Rows of large punctures and tears moved up his forearm into his bicep. The area was swollen but clean. She looked over the wounds and pressed her fingers against some, pulling gasps from Sarja’s lips. “There’s no sign of infection. You’re lucky I had those water plants. I didn’t know if they’d work dried, but so far so good. Some of these need stitching, but this will have to do.” She replaced the leaves and rewrapped his arm. It started throbbing again, so he pulled it into his chest and cradled it with his good arm. 

“We’ll need to get you some sort of sling. Now for your head. Look at me. Follow my finger.” She held her finger in front of his face, and he watched as she moved it up and down, and side to side. He wasn’t sure what the point was, she wasn’t even looking at his injury. 

“Are you seeing normally?” she asked. He was having trouble focusing his eyes but he said yes anyway. 

“Good, and does your head hurt?” Now Sarja was sure she was crazy. She must have read the look on his face because the corners of her lips turned up just a little. “I mean, I know it hurts, but do you have a headache, a bad one. Here?” She pointed to her own head over her eyes, and then made a sweeping motion over her temples and ears to the back of her neck. 

“Yes, just so,” he answered. 

She nodded. “And how’s your stomach? Hungry yet?” His stomach flipped at the idea and he grimaced. “So, not hungry,” she said. 

“No, but water. Please.”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She hurried away to a pack on the other side of the fire that he had not noticed before. She returned with a water skin, which he took with his good hand eagerly. She held the bag while he drank. “Not too fast now.”

The water was warm and muddy tasting, but it felt wonderful going down his throat. He pulled it away and pushed it back to her. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him for the second time. “You’re welcome… what’s your name?”

“Sarja,” he supplied. 

“Nice to meet you, Sarja. I’m Clarke.” 

The woman, Clarke, cut some strips of meat from the spit and brought them to Sarja. It tasted fatty and strong and Sarja wrinkled his nose as he chewed.

“Not my favorite either,” Clarke said. “But that was my last bullet, so it’ll have to last for awhile.”

Sarja did not know what a “bullet” was, but decided it was better not to ask. After eating, Sarja let Clark help move him closer to the fire, where there was shade from a large stone that would protect him from the afternoon sun. He drifted to sleep watching Clarke carve the carcass and lay the strips of meat out to dry. 

***ooOOoo***

Sarja didn’t open his eyes until it was again dark. 

“Good, you’re awake,” Clarke said, standing from where she was tending the fire and coming over to him. “Can you sit up?” His head swam a little but he was able to sit. Clarke looked over the bandages on his arm. “Move your fingers?” He did. “Good. And how does it feel?” 

“It hurts,” he answers hoarsely.

“But not sharp, right?” 

“No.” 

“Good. You haven’t bled through, so it looks like the bleeding is under control. I’ll change the bandages in the morning. Hungry?”

He was hungry, and Clarke gave him more dog meat. While they ate she asked him about why he was so far from any village alone and he told her about his father and their sheep. If she was surprised that such a task would be left to a boy so young, she didn’t say. He asked her where she was headed and she said that she was just traveling and would not say more. 

Stomach full, he and the woman fell into silence. He lay back down on the blanket and watched the woman, scratching again in her book by the light of the fire. 

After awhile she snapped her book closed and said, “I’m going to take what’s left of the dog and dump it off the ridge over there. Wouldn’t want to attract any more.”

“You aren’t going to trade the skin?” Sarja asked.

The woman looked to him in interest. “Would it make a good trade?”

“Only if you prepare it soon.”

“And how do you do that?”

Sarja was astonished. How could a grown woman be so ignorant? Tanning was a job for children and elders. “You don’t know?”

The woman laughed bitterly. “Kid, I could fill books with the things I don’t know.”

For the next two hours Sarja talked Clarke through the process: the washing with ashes and limestone, the scraping with a sharp edged stone, and finally the stretching where it would dry next to the fire. All along he answered questions about what kind of trade the skin would make, and what the words were in his language. He laughed as she pronounced the words back to him in her thick strange accent. All the while Clarke stopped to scratch into the pages of her book, and Sarja felt very important. Never before had anyone written on paper anything that he had said. 

“Clarke,” he said.

She was busy writing and didn’t look up at him. “hum?”

“Thank you… for saving me.”

She raised her head and their eyes met. She smiled and looked over at the drying pelt. “Os kofon,” good trade, she said in his native language and then turned back to her work. 

Soon the flames started to swim in front of Sarja’s eyes and the last thing he remembered was the sound of charcoal scratching on paper.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a cry that woke Sarja from his sleep the next morning. He opened his eyes to see Clarke clutching at her chest and panting. She caught him staring and she quickly looked away. Nothing was said. After a moment Clarke got up and walked off into the early dawn light. Awhile later she returned and put some branches on the embers of the fire. Then she threaded some meat on a stick, doused it with water and set it over the coals to warm. 

“I have to move on today,” was the first thing that she said. “I’ve already been here too long. Can I take you somewhere?”

Sarja sat up and tried his arm. It was still very sore but better than it had been the day before. He felt the back of his head. It was tender to the touch, but there was no blood on his hand when he pulled it away. “I can’t go home. I have to go after the sheep at the high pasture.”

“Now look, Sarja. You probably shouldn’t even travel today, let alone go after sheep.”

“I must.” He thought of his family. This was the first time he had been allowed to go after the strays alone. His future place in his family depended on him being successful. 

“Listen, you’ve had a concussion… a bruise on your brain. And your arm still needs time to heal.”

Sarja grunted as he stood to his feet. He swayed a little but was determined to stand. “I can’t fail my family,” he said, putting as much determination in his voice as he could muster.

Clarke bit her lip and looked past him, out toward the horizon. “Okay,” she finally said, turning her eyes back to his. “I’ll help you find your sheep, and then I’ll get you home.”

“You have already done enough, and I’m grateful, but I do not wish to delay you from your travels any longer.”

“Oh, I don’t expect to help you for nothing.” She took the stick from the fire and held the warmed meet out to him.

Sarja did not take what was offered. “I have nothing for payment,” he said.

“You seem to know a lot about this area and the people here. I offer you a trade. I will help you find your sheep and to get home if you share what you know with me. Good trade?” She offered him the food again.

Sarja hesitated for a moment and then took the stick. “Good trade.”

***ooOOoo***

The first order after breakfast was to change Sarja’s bandages, then Clarke made a makeshift sling, and tied it tightly around Sarja’s neck. After packing up camp, Clark swung her own pack onto her back and then took Sarja’s small bag and, despite his protests, slung it too over her shoulder. Thus ladened, they started off, climbing upward, towards the high pasture. 

The walk to the edge of the pasture wasn’t long, but the pasture area was huge and Sarja decided it was best to go to the highest possible point where sheep would have been lost and then work down from there. Their pace was slow, but steady, all the while Clarke asked about Sarja’s village, about the people, what they did, the village elders, who they traded with, and who their enemies were. She practiced his native language, and Sarja was surprised at how much she already knew. 

It was a little before high sun that they found their first sheep, three fluffy white animals grazing in a small thicket of trees.   
Clarke took off the packs, and started opening hers. “I can go around behind them and drive them towards you. Do you have a rope in your bag?”

Sarja was glad that they had found the sheep, but he was gladder that they had a reason to stop. He had tried not to show it but he was exhausted. As soon as Clarke had taken off her pack, he had collapsed to the ground, grateful for the respite. “We don’t need a rope,” he said, adjusting the sling on his neck to a more comfortable position. 

“No rope? How do you get all these animals back to your village? Do you drive them?”

Sarja shook his head. “You really don’t know anything, do you? They are sheep and I am their shepherd.” Sarja then made a loud, high pitched trilling sound with his tongue, and the sheep, who had previously been ignoring them, came trotting out from the trees towards them.

Clarke looked on with wide, disbelieving eyes. “So they just come when you call them?”

“Of course they do.”

“Why?” Clarke asked. “Why would they do that?”

“I am their leader. I protect them.”

“But don’t you also slaughter them?”

“Only if they are diseased or injured, to protect the good of flock. They trust me to do what is best. A shepherd will give up his life for his sheep.” Clarke just looked on for a moment more, and then turned her head. “Excuse me” she mumbled and then stepped away into the trees. 

While she was away, Sarja fumbled with his bag, awkwardly undoing the tie and shuffling through the contents. He pulled out a small loaf of bread, tore it in half, and started eating. When Clarke returned, she drank from her water skin and splashed some of the water on her face. She wiped her face dry with her sleeve and returned to sit by Sarja. He held the torn bread to her and after hesitating for a moment she took it. 

She bit into it and hummed her approval. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time,” she confessed. 

“I only have this one. Maybe tonight we can find a rabbit?”

Clarke shook her head. ”Like I told you, I’m out of bullets.”

“I don’t know what bullets is, but I have some cord.”

“Cord?”

“Tell me you know how to set up a snare.”

Clarke looked down at the last few bites of bread in her hand.

“Nou mou, Clarke! How do you even survive? You were able to kill the giant dog but can’t set a simple snare?”

She looked away and mumbled something about killing, but Sarja did not catch it. Then Clarke stood. “Are you okay to go? We better keep looking.”

Over the next few hours they found seven more sheep on the high pasture, and the remnants of one that was just bones and blood and wool. Sarja trilled his tongue and the sheep followed behind as they walked. Clarke kept looking back to check on them but Sarja knew there was really no need. He told her that sheep liked to keep the shepherd in sight. 

When Sarja’s injuries began to throb and he became too tired, Clarke insisted that they make camp. It was a few hours before sun down and they found a small protected ravine where there was a trickle of water and the sheep would be somewhat sheltered for the night. Insistent that they not eat another meal of dog meat, Sarja talked Clarke through setting up a few snares at the edge of the tree line. While they waited Clarke left to gather firewood and fill their water sacks. 

Sarja must have drifted to sleep because the next thing he knew was the sound of scratching on paper. Clarke had built a small fire, and she was writing again. 

“I pushed you too hard today,” she said without looking at him. “I shouldn’t have made you move so soon.”

“I had to get the sheep,” he answered.

“So you say.” She wrote a short while longer and then snapped her book closed. “Tell me,” she said, fixing her eyes on the boy. “You said that your family owns hundreds of sheep. Why risk your life for a small handful?” 

Sarja furrowed his eyebrows. He had never considered such a question. The answer was so simple. After another moment of thinking he shrugged. “Because they are mine.”

Clarke did not respond to this statement, she just looked at him as if taking him in. As her eyes traced the outline of the boys face, they seemed to soften. She coughed and cleared her throat. “I’m gonna go check on the snares.”

Sarja watched Clarke walk away and he wondered if he had said something wrong. He realized that while they had spoken all day, he still did not know anything about this woman, his rescuer. He spotted the black book that Clarke had laid down on her pack. While Sarja couldn’t read, his curiosity got the better of him, and he went and sat in Clarke’s spot and picked up the book. The sun was going down and he leaned into the fire for added light. He had seen books before. The village had one where they wrote down the name of each new elder and agreements between villages, and the travel man sometimes had them. Once Sarja had seen one with pictures of the ocean, and he knew that someday he wanted to go there. 

The pages of this book were yellow and fading. The edges were ragged and he was surprised that the first few pages did not contain writing as he had expected but drawings in black charcoal. A lake with pine trees. A two headed horse. A woman, maybe Clarke’s mother. A large ball with dark shapes on its surface. Between the drawings were pages of words, symbols that he did not know. He had learned to write his name and to figure numbers, that was all. He flipped the pages. There were maps. Sarja knew what maps were. He could make out the mountains, the rivers, the forest that he knew. On one page there was a fresh black dot where his village was located. He turned the page. The woman drawn on this page could only be Heda. He recognized the war paint on her face. He had seen her once, last year when he accompanied his mother to Polis to trade. The next few pages were missing. He ran his fingers down the jagged edges and turned the page again. This page was different. The marks were dark and deep, gouges really, to the point where there were holes through the paper; if there was an image here, he could not make it out. The next page was a drawing of people at a feasting table sleeping, or maybe dead. He looked closer; dead, he decided. He turned the page and saw an image of a girl with dark curly hair. Her eyes were closed and her fists clenched; she was screaming. The next images were blistered and grotesque bodies. Faces with open eyes and open mouths with no life in them. He kept turning the pages. Page after page was full of dark images, all death and black scratches. He stopped at a page with a drawing of children, a pile of dead children, balls and packs lay discarded around them, blistered, staring, and that’s when the truth came to him, and it froze him to the very core - Wanheda! 

“Sarja!” 

The word rang like a horn blast in his ear. He closed the book and jumped to his feet, tossing the book aside. 

Clarke stopped where she stood, a rabbit dangling from her hand, the smile falling from her face. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. His eyes were wide. He was trembling. “I didn’t mean to.” 

She raised her hand out to him. Her voice was soft and placating. “Sarja…”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. With his heart threatening to pound out of his chest, Sarja did the only thing he could think to do. He ran. 

xxoo00ooxx

He scrambled up the side of the ravine, struggling with only one arm. He heard the crunch of rocks behind him. He heard her call out his name. He did not look back. He plunged into the darkness. 

He did not know what direction he was going; it didn’t matter, he just had to get away. He had known, hadn’t he? From the very beginning, when he first saw her, the way the moonlight lit up her hair. She was the sky warrior. It was so obvious now. Why she hadn’t know his language. Why she hadn’t know how to clean a skin or set a trap. Demons had no need of these skills. 

He stumbled along, not seeing the obstacles in his way. He could still hear her voice in the distance calling his name. He had brought this on himself. He had allied himself with the sky warrior and told her of where he lived, the numbers of his people, the location of their village. He had betrayed them and now they would become nothing but her next conquest; drawings in the sky warrior’s trophy book. He thought of his friends, how they would look all piled up with empty eyes, victims of the terrible Wanheda.

Tears were coursing down his face now, further blurring his vision, but he dare not slow his pace. The next thing he knew, his toe came in contact with a rock. He went sprawling. He extended both of his arms to break his fall; still, he hit hard, and fresh pain shot up his injured arm. He could hear the sky warrior’s footsteps get closer. He pushed to sit up, but the sharp pain in his arm made him abandon the idea. He lay there panting. The sky warrior was coming. Let her come. Now that he knew her secret, no doubt she would kill him. At least he wouldn’t have to live to see the faces of those he had betrayed to her. 

“Sarja?” “Sarja!” She came up and crouched beside side him. “Are you hurt?”

He rolled away from her, curling up to protect himself. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

“Ai gonplei ste odon,” he murmured, preparing himself for the worst. 

“Don’t say that,” Clarke said. “Why do you people always say that? Like death is something to be proud of?” She reached for his arm, but he held it stiff to his chest and continued to look away. 

“Sarja? I promise you. You’re not going to die. I won’t hurt you.”

She tried again. “Look, nothing's changed. If I’d wanted to kill you I would have done it already.”

He said nothing. 

She touched his shirt sleeve. “You’re bleeding again. That was a pretty nasty fall.”

Still he said nothing. 

“Do you know what? Screw this!” She threw up her hands and stood. “I’ve done nothing but help you. I saved your life. If you want to abandon me now, then be my guest. In fact, get in line.”

She turned to walk away, and Sarja was amazed that she had not hurt him. Hadn’t even touched him. He realized that this might be his one chance to save his village; so he gathered his courage, took a shallow shaky breath and croaked out, "Wanheda. Have mercy.” 

She turned back to him. “What did you say?”

“I said. Mighty Wanheda, have mercy.” He rolled to his knees, and bowed his head. “Have mercy on me and on my village.”

The moon had risen now and he could see her shake her head and pursed her lips in a tight line. “Wan…? What is that name? Wan… Why did you call me that?”

“You are the Sky Warrior. You shoot fire out of your hands and command the wolves. The clans kneel before you. You bring death upon all in your path.”

Clarke snorted, a hollow and mirthless laugh. “At least that last part was right. Where did you hear all that?”

“Forgive me, Wanheda. A travel man came through my village.”

“And he said I could shoot fire from my hands,” she said incredulously. “And you believed him?”

“That is how the Wanheda defeated the mountain.”

“And that’s why you ran from me?”

“Why else would the great Wanheda come to my aid if not to get information about my village and its weaknesses?”

“Because maybe I wanted to help you,” she said bitterly. “Ever think of that?”

Sarja dared to look up for the first time. Her face was white in the moonlight. “You’re not going to kill me?” he asked.

Clarke shook her head. “No. You have my word.”

“And my village is safe?”

“Yes.”

“But the pictures in your book?”

“Are my demons to fight. That’s all.”

Sarja was considering her words when a dog's howl pierced the air; first one, then another, then another, coming from the direction of their camp.


	4. Chapter 4

“The sheep!” he said and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. 

She went to stop him but he turned from her grasp. “But your arm,” she protested.

“It’s nothing,” Sarja lied. He could already feel the blood dripping from his fingertips but hoped that his weakness would be hidden by the darkness as he hurried back to his sheep. 

He stopped at the ridge overlooking the ravine. The sheep were bleating and huddling together and he thought he saw in the shadows, two, maybe three wild dogs. Suddenly one sheep on the edge bellowed and tumbled to the ground. 

Sarja pulled his knife and started down the ravine edge when he felt a blow behind his calf and his foot flew out from under him. He landed hard on his butt. Clarke came from behind him and picked up the knife that had flown from his hand and ran down into the ravine, yelling and hollering with all her might. He watched several shadows circle, as Clarke engaged the dog that was attacking the sheep. He wanted to help Clarke. He had no weapon, but he had an idea. 

Precious seconds passed as he put his plan in motion. He hoped he was not too late. Flaming torch held high, he ran towards where he could hear Clarke and the dog fighting. He waved the fire and yelled with all his lung power. The dogs scattered as he thrust the flame at them. Each turning tail and running off into the darkness, until only the one engaged with Clarke remained. Clarke had fallen and the dog was about to attack. Sarja swung his torch and smashed the dog across its back. The dog turned to him, all snarls and wild eyes. Sarja thought of his blood soaked bandages and knew he was done for. Sarja stepped back and swung clumsily at the beast, but it had scented him and was not deterred. 

The dog hunched down, coiled for the attack, and sprung. But rather than being hit from the front, Sarja was hit from the side. Clarke struck the ground with a thump next to him, the dog immediately on top of her. She grabbed at its eyes. It twisted in her hands. In one smooth and powerful action Clarke slit its throat. Blood, warm and metallic, spewed across Clarke’s face and neck, and the beast fell twitching and soundless to the ground. 

Sarja scrambled to his feet and picked up the torch, but saw no other attacker. The other dogs had gone. He turned his attention back to Clarke who was just now moving from where she had fallen to the earth. 

“Wanheda! Wanheda,” he called to her.“Are you alright?” He moved help her but a dark look warned him to stay away. Clarke knelt by the beast, blood dripping from her face like warpaint, and Sarja saw her hand shake so violently that she dropped the knife into the sticky grass.

Sarja reached out for her shoulder, “Wanheda?”

She jerked away from his touch. “I need…” she stood and stumbled backward. “I need to go… clear my head.” And then she walked away into the darkness, not once wiping the gore from her face. 

Sarja watched her go until she was over the rise and he couldn’t see her any longer. He thought of going after her but remembering the look on her face was enough to scare him away. Sarja took his time tending to the injured sheep and then gathered and reassured the others until all was calm. Exhausted, he returned to the fire. His arm was sore, and fresh blood had soaked through the bandage, but he was too tired to tend it. He ate the last of what he could find in his pack and then laid down on his back, looking up to the stars.  


He was mostly asleep when he caught a sound unlike anything he had ever heard. It was an eerie howling sound. Worried for his sheep, he pulled his knife and headed once more into the darkness. He was relieved to find his sheep safe and unalarmed. Still, he heard the strange howling and was curious about its origins. He slowly clamored up the side of the ravine. The moon was high and everything appeared in solemn grayscale around him. He followed his ears, and as he reached the next hill, the sound grew louder. He moved silently in the shadows, knife in hand. When he reached the rise he saw the source of the sound. A shadowed figure knelt alone under a tree. 

He knew at once that it was Clarke; he could see her wavy hair tossing in the breeze. But that was his only clue because the sounds coming from her were inhuman and haunted. His first instinct was to rush to her side, but something stayed him. These were not the sounds of physical pain, but emotional pain beyond measure. Sarja had never seen anyone is such grief. In her sorrow she was undone and writhing, naked and raw. In the far, far distance, he heard the answering haunting echo of wolves in wind, as if all of nature mourned with her. His soul too ached for her and suddenly Sarja felt ashamed for watching her in such a private moment. No one should be seen in such a moment. He quietly moved from the shadow of the ridge and headed back to their camp. As he walked, somehow he knew deep in his soul that he would never tell another living being that he had seen the great Wanheda cry. 

***ooOOoo***

The next morning, Sarja was relieved to see that at some time in the night Clarke had returned to the fireside. It was the first time he had seen her sleeping since they met, and Sarja was heartened to see that her face had been washed clean. Watching her there, breathing slow and rhythmically, he was amazed at how young she looked. She was just barely a woman, maybe even still a girl.  


By the time Clarke woke, Sarja had gathered sage for tea and had heated water in the small tin cup from his pack. Clarke accepted, and after she drank, he filled it again for himself. Little was said. After breakfast, Clarke changed his bandage and retied his sling.  


When they were ready to go, Sarja trilled his tongue and his sheep fell in line behind him. Clarke walked by his side. The conversation was stilted at first, comments about the weather, the sheep, the terrain, but as the hours passed, they fell into a more natural rhythm. Sarja still had not broached the topic that was most weighting on his mind when they came over the last ridge and his village came into sight. 

“This is where we say goodbye,” Clarke said, slipping his pack off her shoulder and placing it back onto his own. 

“Come with me to my home. My Father will offer you food and rest for the night.”

“Sorry. I can’t.”

“I promise not to tell them who you are.”

Clarke gave a subtle shake of her head. “I can’t be seen. You understand, don’t you?”

Sarja dropped his eyes to the ground. 

Clarke nudged him and held out her hand. “This is how my people say goodbye.”

Sarja looked at her outstretched hand for a second before putting his good hand in hers. When she let his hand go, he lunged forward and wrapped his arm around her waist. “This is how I say goodbye,” he said.

Clarke stood there awkwardly though the embrace. When Sarja let go, Clarke hunched her shoulders and turned to go. 

“Clarke?” he called.

She turned back and regarded him. 

“Why did you do it? Why did you risk your life to save my sheep?”

Clarke smiled. “Because they were yours.”

In future years when there was talk in the village of Wanheda, Sarja was always silent. He never knew for sure what stories were true and which ones were fiction, but this he did know: her true name was not Wanheda, commander of death. To him, she would always be Clarke Kikonheda, commander of life. 

 

 

 

x  
xxxx


End file.
